I like to see writing as a form of sleeping. Some would have clear dreaming visions and others hallucinating, blur, and incoherent images. Those visuals would be the scenes of their writing. They all experience a state of wakefulness known as a "writer's block". My problem with writing is that I tend to write while observing, anything and everything around me, that I am accused of day dreaming or day sleeping and when I sit down to write I am in a state of wakefulness. I have written many books that never made it to paper. They get lost in the air like screaming echoes of the dead.

There are many forms of anger and different expressions and responses for such a feeling. Those variations of anger and anger expression are equally found among men and women but I am particularly concerned about the suppression of anger. I believe that the result of suppressing anger largely varies between men and women. When men suppress anger, it goes straight to the neural devices of the sexual organ, melts with all the sexual frustration there exists, and splashes out with the first ejaculation. With women, anger goes straight to the womb and starts eating it inside out resulting in a high energy of heat that sends alarm signals to the nervous system which can result either in hysteric responses or in another suppression of hysteria that again goes straight to the inflamed womb resulting in a high feeling of depression and "melancolie", a sweet and sour "melancolie" in most cases.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

One of those days where you just want to get to bed and bury your head under the pillow. You do not even feel like cursing or nagging. Crying would be too much effort to make and you do not even have the emotions to do it. Anger? is it anger what you feel? No. It is too human a feeling. It is rather disgust. One of those days you long to get lost in a silly movie or wish you sleep and wake up to find yourself on an undiscovered island or turned into a giant bug.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Not so brilliant but a very close shot. The New York Trilogy was much more intriguing philosophical and much deeper but I found "Invisible" highly entertaining and absorbing. I could recommend it for boring rainy afternoons.

Monday, December 7, 2009

I enjoyed reading kafka's metamorphosis with the eyes and mind of a child, totally believing and living the story like a fairytale or just like watching Spiderman. When I read some analysis of the story, or better said the many confusing and conflicting analysis of what Kafka might have meant, the symbolism and all, I liked Kafka even more. I found the theory of a reference to Freud's oedipal complex the most convincing although I like to think that kafka who asked that all his books be burned, intended it to be just that absurd.

I tend to forget most of my dreams the moment I wake up but I never forget how it felt in each dream. I always wake up knowing very well if my dream was a happy or a sad one even when I have no clue what it was about. Not just that, I wake up with the same feeling I had while dreaming, as if dreams leave residues of emotions or maybe dreams for me are not brain visuals but chapters of emotional happenings. My memory works in mysterious ways. I usually tend to forget a lot, a lot of incidents but I always know how I felt in each of them. I might not remember a person for instance but I would know for sure if I liked him or not.

The other day, as I was walking the few meters separating the main road from my house, all distracted in my own thoughts, my usual state when walking, maybe merely thinking about the pace of my walk or I could have been fantasizing about the day I throw a resignation paper in a burst of anger on the desk of my supervisor, making its R E S I G N E D letters echo throughout the building, as I was walking those few meters, a man walking a few steps ahead of me spotted me and some brilliant idea must have banged in his head. Not weary of the pain striking his neck turned ninety degrees to watch me, he follows me eagerly with his eyes, until he reached a turn which he desperately thought might bring such an adventure to an end losing the sight of me should I take it or decide to take it. Then, a statue of the Lady standing there right at the corner saved him from such an imminent danger and a religious call suddenly fills his heart. One hand on the statue and the other in his pants, one iris on the statue and the other at the corner of his eye, he watches me taking the turn and follows. As he walked less than a meter by my side and as I summoned the soldiers of fury to invade every cell and nerve of my body, he asks me with as much idiocy as he could gather,"Can I ask you one question, and please don’t take me wrong, my intentions are good. But why are you sad?" What does he expect? Does he expect me truly that I would turn to him and indulge in a discussion about my sadness? Does he seriously expect an answer to that? What runs in his brain cells? Does he expect that I turn to him in a sudden for a sympathy hug? But more, does anyone walk alone in the street with a huge smile on their face? I say "none of your business" with an arrogant and disgusted tone and keep walking at the same pace. I was not mad at him. I was rather mad at this society that has no room for privacy. At the airport or in the plane, anyone who takes the seat next to yours feels an urge to talk to you, even if you are fully absorbed in a book. If you happen to sit alone in a cafe, your face buried in a newspaper, beware to show your face or turn your eyes away, lest someone there is waiting for that exact move opportunity to raid your privacy and ask you with all the memory of innocence left from his childhood "why are you sitting there alone". Most probably he is not prince charming. In a bus, don’t even try to have a book, as someone who has never opened a book in his entire life will ask you what you are reading about. Just lie there and feint a deep sleep. Privacy is a luxury forbidden in some corners of this world.

Friday, December 4, 2009

I dont appreciate most of the modern Arabic poetry. How can this line for example be of any meaning? "Whenever a day passes by you realize that the universe is a mere sad apple that you keep under your left breast." It is not even poetic. Or "An orange peeled from the inside" as someone named his poetry book and included in it a poem that says "I like you without fingers", or that "Great Poet" who has a piece about Yellow panties. I can't find it now. But I will keep looking.

When I was a kid, I used to wake up at night to sit under the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. I would feel an inexplicable sweetness and joy as I watched the twinkling lights and the reflection of colours all while dozing at the sound of peaceful Christmas lullabies. Those moments used to fill me with an odd feeling of serenity. I don’t particularly enjoy sitting there anymore but those songs still fill me with joy. Despite all the changes that might hit someone’s personality, beliefs, or thinking, one can never break free of some sweet childhood memories. They glue to the brain and inhabit the soul like a dormant beast only to upraise again in a sudden like a splash of an old odour.